Running For Home
by reconnoiterer
Summary: You wonder if you are alive - and you're not sure if you want to be. Chris struggles to accept the death of his partner. Unresolved Chris/Jill. Written pre-RE5
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_They beam things into your head__  
The ghosts of your pleasure and contempt__  
When we were liars things were seamless__  
When we were wired, the world was like a secret  
__I close my eyes now and I scream__  
I turn the light on and there's nothing left redeeming__  
I saw your face before it changed  
The gun it makes you look nicer in a bad way_

Blood. The average human body possesses approximately five litres of the precious stuff; more than enough to drown a man in. And Chris is drowning in every bloody drop that slicks his hands and drenches his clothing. It's filling up his lungs until he chokes, every fibre of his body screaming for air, for _mercy_.

With every beat of her frantic heart Jill Valentine is bleeding to death in his arms. She's calmer than he is, resigned maybe, or perhaps just too far gone to panic now. But she's always been the level-headed one, the one to tell him when he's crossed the line, when he needs to take a step back and apologize. Her fingers are twisted into the fabric of his shirt, into his skin, holding on for what's left of her dear life. In an attempt to stem the flow of blood Chris had used his jacket as a makeshift dressing, holding it tightly in place by cinching up the remains of her useless tactical vest. It's not working. Under his breath he recites a mantra that begs her to hold on, just to hold on a little longer…

His chest cavity has become a combustion chamber; each breath burning in and out like a fire is wrapped around his heart, boiling his blood. Despite the cool air his skin is flushed, his dark hair damp with sweat. He doesn't feel it; the only sensation his nerves register is the hot spill of her blood and the damning clamminess of her skin beneath it. He feels _terrified_.

On the edge of the mountain lake, just a few dozen meters away, the rest of the team is prepping the helicopter for their escape. The junked-out warehouse whose former owners relied on armor-piercing rounds instead of planning and training is just behind him, deserted. The first rays of light that pierce the fading night have cast everything in a deep blue glow, the airfoils glinting as the dark shapes of his comrades hurry to pack up. This is Jill's favourite time of day; just before the sunrise when the morning has yet to take shape. Chris prefers day, as long and as bright as he can find it – no shadows, no secrets. His long legs eat up the distance, his boots solid on the rocky earth beneath them.

"Chris," her voice is breathless with pain and shock, "here."

He doesn't stop moving, his steps measured to be as quick and as smooth as he can manage. There is no time left now.

"Chris!" His name is a gasp, a whimper on her lips, and suddenly he doesn't have the heart to deny her. Jill Valentine doesn't gasp in pain, she doesn't _whimper_. The sound of it splits something in his chest wide open.

In the distance the blades of the helicopter whirl to life, the mechanical noise of the engine disturbing the tranquility of the small clearing. The clear water of the mountain lake begins to ripple from the force of the air moving over top, some of the nearby trees tossing their branches. But his feet have stopped moving.

"Where?" his voice is rough from disuse, from the harsh, panting breaths that have dried his throat.

"Here, by the water."

He tells himself that it will only be for a minute, that he'll humour her for just a minute and they can be back on their way. He's humouring himself to keep believing that he can still save her. In reality he knows that after all they have been through together, all that she has given him in their time together, he at least owes her the dignity of choosing where she wants to die.

A darkly dressed figure leaps out of the waiting helicopter and makes its way over to where Chris is easing them down onto the large, rounded rocks of the shore. The medic picks his way over the large, gnarled limbs of a dead tree and crouches down beside the pair. He doesn't have to take her pulse to know the situation is bad; her skin is ashen and her breathing erratic. The entire front of her bullet-hole ridden vest is wet with dark blood. There's not much of a job for him here, but he places two fingers against her neck to keep up appearances.

"Tell them to kill the engine," Jill rasped, pulling his hand away from herself. The middle-aged man looked up at Chris – Jill was his superior in rank, but Chris was the Team Leader of his operation.

"Sir?"

Chris looked down at the gruesomely pale face of his partner, heard the strain of her rapid, shallow breathing echo through his head. They were too far out; it would take hours to fly back to the nearest BSAA base. Even the nearest hospital was a stretch, and it would be a gamble as to whether or not they would be equipped to deal with something like this. It was likely that she would die in transit, amid the noise of the wind and the engines, laid out amongst the booted feet of both the men she had trained with and the ones who had done this to her.

But, if they stay, his partner – his _best friend_ will die here, now, with him. Jill touches his neck and he swallows hard, nodding to the older man. The beach rocks shift as the medic steps away and a moment later the whirl of the blades stops. This is how it ends.

Chris feels his entire body start to tremble. Gently, he shifts her in his arms so he's cradling her more fully; her head nestled in the crook of his arm, her legs stretched out over his. She fits perfectly against his chest - she always has - although he's never taken the time to appreciate it.

"Jill please," he's breathing almost as badly as she is, his system suffering a different kind of shock. He wants to say something reassuring, but the words won't come. "Not like this, not you."

"It's okay Chris. I'm not afraid."

"No," he shakes his head, pinpricks behind his eyes making his sinuses feel thick. There's no escaping that this is his fault, that the blame of it must rest squarely on his shoulders alone. "There's still time…"

"It's okay," she says again, turning her head to look across the water where just above the deep valley on the other side the sky is beginning to turn pink. "If I can see the sunrise then today still counts, right?"

It's an old joke of theirs; she's trying to make him feel better. They used to count the days they'd survived after the mansion, the days they were never supposed to have. The sunrise was safety, salvation. Sunrise meant the day had really dawned, that the nightmares crawled back to their shadows for a few hours. Chris looks up towards the valley, the coloured light of it reflected as a perfect mirror in the still water. It's beautiful.

She's beautiful.

She's dying.

This is _torture_.

"I can't finish this without you," he admits, gently brushing an errant strand of hair back from her face with shaky fingertips. She closes her eyes and winces as a wave of pain jolts her system and Chris thinks that he might actually lose his mind if he has to endure this. He needs her more than he's ever been willing to admit. More than he can admit to her even now. She is a part of him he's not willing to let go of.

"Of course you can," Jill puts her hand on his cheek, leaving an imprint of red. "You've always been the stronger one."

It's a lie. She's always had a strength beyond what he can comprehend.

"Then maybe I just don't want to."

She manages a smile.

"Since when do you ever get what you want?"

"Jill, don't. Don't joke… don't leave me like this…not like this." The words are raw, heartbreaking. Jill doesn't want him to have to suffer like this alone; she knows she has the easy part.

"You'll be okay," her thumb strokes over his cheekbone. She'll never touch him again. The warmth of his hand folds over hers, holding it against the slight roughness of his cheek. "You're going to be okay Chris."

He just shakes his head; his throat is too tight to speak, too tight to tell her all of the things he thought they would have years for. A fresh wave of pain wracks her body, twisting it up. Chris holds her as tightly as he can, waiting for the spell to wash over her, but her body stays tight, frantic.

"It's okay Jill, I've got you."

"Chris…"

All he can hear is her voice, her breathing, and the steady click of her watch counting down in his ear.

_Tick_

"Chris…"

_Tick_

"Jill…" His voice cracks. It's embarrassing but it doesn't matter now.

_Tick_

Inhale

_Tick_

"Chris…" Her fingers tighten in his hair one last time. He surrounds her entire awareness, the great, safe haven of his arms, the rapid jackhammer of his heart in the unyielding wall of his chest. For her, there is no place more comfortable to pass. Her partner, her best friend, she can't hear the words he mouths against her temple.

_Tick_

Exhale

_Tick_

Chris looks up across the lake, across the rounded pebbles and the perfect glass of the water. The sun is just peeking up over the valley, sending shafts of golden light across the scene. Up over head, the pink is turning into an endless, pure blue. It's horrible.

_Tick_

It's beautiful

_Tick_

She's beautiful.

_Tick_

She's dead.


	2. Chapter One

_It's amazing what velocity can do  
When human beings are in season_

Her hands are cold in the small, cold box of a room where the BSAA keeps its fallen members before their 'people' can make the appropriate arrangements. It isn't large, or hi-tech, but the Agency is well-enough equipped to take care of its own. Chris is thankful for that at least; he wouldn't know where to start. He's not even sure if the death of his partner is something that will ever fully penetrate into all the folds and wrinkles of his brain. It feels like a piece of him is lying stretched out on the stainless steel table, unmoving and serene. But the void that is her absence inside of him is already filling up with a hot, blinding rage that knows no humanity, no limit, no control.

He has never seen her hands so still, like a marble cast of themselves. If he lines up their palms the tips of her fingers barely reach his last knuckle, the nails clipped short, the cuticles rough and torn. Her hands seemed ill-suited to her line of work; finely boned and delicate they had suffered much in their use over the years. The pad of his thumb traces the crooked alignment of a pinky finger that never did heal quite right. Jill's hands were her lifeblood; she never truly forgave the medic that set it wrong although her skills had not suffered any for it. These hands had killed people, they had killed monsters, and they are killing him with their lifelessness.

Underneath the modest, white sheet her body seems too small, too frail to have represented the formidable Jill Valentine. Despite the deep shadows cast across her features by the dim fluorescent lighting she looks young – too young to be lying dead in a morgue. He has never seen her so expressionless, so devoid, even in her sleep. It's peaceful in a kind of chilling way. This isn't the way he wants to remember her, but he knows it is the images of her here, and earlier in his arms that will stay with him as the memory of her smile fades.

His fingers slip gently through hers. This is the last time he'll ever get to touch her, the last few quiet moments they'll ever get to have together. He doesn't want to step outside and hear them roll her back into the dark little cubby hole and lock the door. He doesn't want to go home to the house they shared and wake up everyday in it alone.

But this is his life now; it wasn't when he woke up in the morning, but it is now. He would trade it for hers in an instant, but he can't. The only thing he can do is to persevere, to try to live through it. To take her personal effects back to the house and act like he didn't just wash her blood off of every inch of himself.

It's almost time to go. The lids of his eyes squeeze shut as he wills his skin to memorize the feel of her hand in his. He never wants to forget her crooked little pinky; the little scar on the inside of her forearm; the line of her nose; the way her second toes are as long as her big toes; the sweep of her eyelashes on her cheeks… there's too much to forget - he'll never preserve it the way he wants to in his mind.

He can't let go; he can't leave her here alone in the dark. He can't even _breathe _he's so frantic at the thought.

His eyes open. He compresses his lips into a thin, bloodless line until his chest begins to rise and fall at a more normal rate. There's a light knock at the door; outside the world is still turning, things still need to get done. His lips touch her knuckles once, twice, in a final gesture, laying her hand gently down at her side again before he forces himself to turn around and walk away.

The lab technologist gives him a wide berth as they pass each other in the doorway. This is a place where people give the name Chris Redfield some respect. They admire the standard of work he does, the legacy of accomplishment he's built up for himself. He's dependable, uncompromising in his morality.

Or at least he used to be.

He wonders how much his name will be worth tomorrow, after they finish scrubbing the viscera off the walls of the interview room where a pathetic young man is waiting to die.


	3. Chapter Two

_In the middle of the day__  
When you drive home to your place__  
From the job that makes you sleep__  
Back to the thoughts that keep you awake__  
Long after night has come to claim  
Any life that still remains_

The thick taste of tobacco smoke coats the inside of his throat with every drag he pulls. Chris hasn't smoked in years but tonight he can't stop, even if he hates the way his hands keep shaking, hates the feel of that weakness against his lips. The night is windy and cool, the bushes that line the veranda rustling their branches against the latticework. Next door, in an almost identical victory-era bungalow, the back door slams and a pair of heavy footfalls pound down the stairs towards the garage – they have teenage kids that are constantly on the warpath these days. Chris never got a chance to hate his parents; by the time he was sixteen he was too busy looking after his kid sister and his widower father to be misunderstood.

This house, with its blue siding and white trim, its unkempt little garden and its faded Christmas lights, is the first place he's really settled since Raccoon. Back then he rented a bachelor suite in a building with a real asshole of a landlord who always threatened to cut off his hot water. Jill lived on the other side of the police station in a much neater one-bedroom with a shitty view. They bought this place together out of convenience and familiarity; after years on the run living side by side it seemed a logical step. He could sell it now – he doesn't need the extra bedroom anymore, the extra half of a mortgage payment sucked out of his paycheque – but he's come to genuinely like the place. It's comfortable. It's home. And it is so quiet now he can barely stand to be within its walls.

From inside he can hear the front door open and the higher, female tones of his sister's voice. She arrived about an hour and a half after he did, took one look at him, and burst into tears. Only half of her shuddering, stuttering sobs were for the extinguished life of the closet thing she ever had to a sister; the other were for the man she can barely associate with her flesh-and-blood brother. She couldn't even recognize his low, ravaged voice over the phone when he called to tell her the news. She's never seen his shoulder so stooped, his eyes so haunted; despite everything he's been through, nothing has ever hit him like this. She cried because she knew it made him feel better to have someone to take care of, and because she knows he never will, even if the act of keeping it all in is erasing the best of traits she associates with him.

A lower, masculine voice mingles with his sister's as the sound floats out through the cracked-open back door. A few minutes later the light footfalls of someone wearing a favourite pair of boots make their way to the door, swinging it open on creaking hinges.

"Hey."

"Hey," Chris glances down at his watch, "you got here fast." He appreciates how loyal, how punctual, the other man is. Leon Scott Kennedy never misses an appointment, never hesitates in dropping everything for a friend. He was only late for work one day in his life, and look at where that got him.

Leon shrugs, depositing his lanky body into the other worn Adirondack chair. "Every job has its perks, right?"

He has never seen Chris Redfield look so depressed, so _compressed_. Claire's brother is a man he associates with confidence, a man with a purpose: a leader. That kind of a man takes up _space_; when he walks in a room people take notice, they gravitate towards him. Chris' body is curled in on itself – he doesn't even look up when Leon sits down. His elbows are dug into his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. Sandwiched between two fingers a cigarette is burning itself down to the filter. Soon it will join the discarded, squashed bodies of its pack-mates in the old, chipped, coffee cup on the little table that separates the chairs.

"Is that her blood under your fingernails?"

"No."

"Is it yours?"

"No."

"Then you've already taken care of it."

There's no reply. Leon scratches a little at the chipping blue paint of the chair before realizing this was probably Jill's chair. She probably curled up in the same seat with a book and a cold drink, maybe stretched out with her legs draped over one of the arms. He crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his elbows.

"So what the fuck happened out there?" It's the question that's been burning in his brain since earlier this afternoon when Claire phoned him and shakily asked him to fly in.

Chris finally looks over at the younger man. His eyes are shadowed, his jaw dark with at least a couple days' stubble. There might have been a time when Leon would have been intimidated by that kind of look, but tonight he knows none of the loathing is directed at him. Chris turns away again, stubbing out the cigarette and tossing it into the cup.

"Got cocky," he says matter-of-factly. "Got sloppy." Getting sloppy in this line of work doesn't mean that the photocopier runs out of toner, or that a grant application misses its deadline. You get complacent, and then you get killed. And maybe your family gets a folded flag and a letter, but maybe – probably – they don't get anything at all.

Still, it's not really an explanation. It doesn't really detail how someone can wake up one morning and go to work - the same routine they've had for years - and at the end of the day wind up dead. What words can? Leon doesn't push it – he's seen people go off the deep end before and it's never pretty. He doesn't want Claire to have to see her brother turn into an animal, and he certainly doesn't want to be the one responsible.

"Look, Chris, if there's anything that I can do… just say the word." Leon is a man who can get all kinds of things done. There are a lot of people in the government – and out of it for that matter – who owe him a lot of big favours.

"There is something, actually."

"Consider it done."

Chris sits back in the chair, eyes still staring out through the railing of the veranda to the shaggy brown grass in the yard. He's not used to having to ask anyone for help; he's used to having someone by his side who knows his limitations, who knows intrinsically when to step up to the plate.

"I need you to take my sister home and look after her for me. She trusts you; if you explain it to her, she'll listen. Eventually."

This isn't exactly the type of thing that Leon was expecting, but he understands. This world of repressed pain, of anguish and emotion denied is one that he's always been grateful Claire has spared herself from.

"Sure. No problem."

"I just… I can't be the brother she needs right now. Not tonight."

The fact that he is willing to admit this shocks Leon, and it reveals something a little sinister. If it is humanly possible, Chris Redfield always puts his family and friends before himself – for better or for worse.

"Don't worry about her – just look after yourself, man."

Easier said than done. Chris gets up from his seat, stuffing the package of cigarettes into the pocket of his worn bomber jacket. Following suit, Leon stands up too, placing his hand on the doorknob.

"Leon, thanks. I owe you."

"It's not a problem."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

Inside, Claire is just hanging up the phone when they both walk through the door. Her eyes are red right down to the waterlines of her lashes, a sign that there just aren't any tears left. Chris crosses checkerboard tiles of the kitchen floor and puts an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey kiddo."

"Hey jerk," her voice is congested from having to blow her nose. "That was Barry."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He says he'll phone tomorrow before his flight leaves so someone can go out and meet him."

"Did he sound alright?"

"He sounds like shit."

"Yeah," Chris lets his arm drop and Leon steps a little closer. She can sense that they're ganging up on her like _she's_ the one they need to keep an eye on. _Fuck them and their misogynistic solidarity_ she thinks to herself. "C'mon, it's late. It's been a rough day. Why don't you head home and get some sleep."

"Forget it, Chris."

"Claire…"

"I'm serious!"

"I know kiddo, I know."

Because he's never really around that often, Leon often forgets how similar they are, how painful it can be when they disagree. Chris has always had a bad wrap for being the over-protective older brother, but Claire can be just as defensive, and occasionally even more stubborn.

"He's right, Claire," he interjects gently. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day - we all need a proper night's rest."

Right. Like anyone present here will be getting any of that.

"You stay the fuck out of this Leon," Claire snaps. This qualifies as one of the worst days of her life; the last thing she needs is to feel like she's been pushed into a corner, like she's been talked down to and placated. The truth is she's afraid to leave, afraid that if she leaves him alone there won't be anything left in the morning. "You've never taken his side in your life, so just stay out of it and you won't set a precedent for yourself."

It's true that he and Chris don't often see eye-to-eye on things. Their goals are the same, but their methodologies can be quite different. Still, Leon can feel for the older man on this one, he knows the value of time spent alone. Chris pinches the bridge of his nose; this isn't a fight he wants to have tonight. He knows what his sister is afraid of, and he knows that there's not much he can say to reassure her. It's not a fight he can win.

"Look," Leon says, several years of conflict-resolution training coming into play. "Can I just talk to you outside for a minute?"

"Fine," she brushes past both of them out the back door. Leon follows closely, closing the door quietly behind him. In the silence of the kitchen Chris can hear the sound of their voices trickle in through the mail-slot and a crack in the window sash.

"You are out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm leaving. Out of your _mind_."

"Claire…"

"That is my _fucking brother_ in there Leon, or don't you get that?" She's usually a lot more articulate, but she's starting to lose it again, her eyes pricking.

"I get that," Leon's booted feet hit a creaking floorboard as he takes a step toward her. "And it's exactly why we've gotta go."

"Don't touch me, Leon. Just don't," she sniffs loudly. She doesn't want Leon to see her cry like this, doesn't want him to think of her as just another damsel in distress he has to save from herself. "I can't just leave him here alone. We're _family_, we take care of each other in times like this."

"I know. But you're his kid sister Claire; as long as you're here he has to be the strong one, he has to take care of you."

"I just don't want him to have to be alone," her words are shaky and she doesn't protest again when he puts his arms around her. Leon has always admired the inherent strength of women, their ability to face things and _feel_ them and still heal and move on. His chest is full of the painful moments he refuses to acknowledge. They lay there in wait, and one day he knows they will be the end of him.

"He wants to be alone."

"He just wants to _die_, can't you see it?"

"Chris Redfield isn't just going to roll over and die. C'mon, even I know that. Now please, let me take you home – let him have tonight."

She hesitates, still not wanting to abandon the only family member she has left. Claire doesn't give up on people, even if it means she has to bleed for them. For a moment Leon wonders if she's just gathering her strength so she can punch him out and tell him to get lost. But she sighs, resigned. Tonight of all nights she doesn't want to fight them both. They leave together on the promise to return the next morning with breakfast. For his part, Chris just promises to be there.

And then he's alone again, sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table, the house dark but for the light in the exhaust hood over the stove. On the fridge is a note penned in red ink in her thin, neat writing:

_Chris – Daniels needs that inventory form by FRIDAY_

_Don't piss him off – he knows people in payroll!_

_J_

The words blur; he hasn't slept. Less than forty-eight hours ago they were both _living_ in this kitchen. He had been sitting in the same place he is now, sections of a newspaper spread out over a tactical map and an assortment of opened mail. Jill had stood over by the stove in a worn pair of jeans and a tshirt that was old and soft and settled on her just right.

-

"What's a five letter word for dinnertime annoyances?" he had asked, having given up the endless reports on the North Korean nuclear test in favour of something more recreational.

"I can think of a four letter one that starts with 'C'" she jibed in return, turning over another spatula's worth of hash browns.

"Ha. Ha."

The stove turned off with a click, the clatter of cutlery and ceramic not long behind. A plate of golden, crispy, starchy cubes of potato deposited itself on his newspaper, along with a fork.

"Here, I made too much."

"You always make too much," he had said, exchanging the pen for the fork. "What happened to you Jill? You used to pack it away like a field hand. You used to be _cool_."

"I'm getting _old_, that's what happened. You can't be old _and_ cool – you're a perfect example of that…"

-

Chris puts his head in his hands – he can think of a four-letter word for complete fuck-up. He drags himself out of the chair and upstairs to where the bedrooms and single bathroom are. But he doesn't stop into his own dark room, the curtains still tightly drawn against the sunrise he was often up too early to be interrupted by anyway. Instead, he continues around the staircase to Jill's room where he steps in to sit on the edge of the bed.

The room's design is a mirror image of his own; much of the furniture is the same but it's all in the wrong place. Jill kept her room nearly impeccably – his is a lot more haphazard in its organization. But, like everything in this place, it's familiar; he could find his way around in the dark with his hands tied behind his back. Stuffed into the frame of the mirror on her dresser are an assortment of photographs and souvenirs. She has the old, laminated paper slip from his R.P.D. S.T.A.R.S. badge, a postcard from when his sister was in Austria, a couple of ticket stubs, a newspaper clipping…

In the lower-most corner of the frame is a snapshot of them together, a year or so ago, at Barry's wedding anniversary. Chris can recognize it by the setting, the unusual formality of their clothing. He hadn't seen her that dressed up in years, hadn't been able to stop himself from stealing glances at her in that royal blue number all night. It had a wider, boxier cut that was belted in at the middle to emphasize her physique, the wide boat neck sometimes slipping a down on one sculpted shoulder or the other. She caught him eyeing up her legs at one point and threatened to strangle him with his tie.

By the time that Moira made it around to them with her camera the tie was nearly off, hung loosely around his neck, his jacket long gone – vanished somewhere into the good cheer. In the photograph Jill is standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward while he sits in one of the mismatched spindle-backed chairs that the Burton's had collected for the garden party. Neither of them is looking at the camera: instead they're facing each other, smiling, exchanging some hidden look.

There used to be a lot of hidden looks, those little exchanges of eye contact decipherable only to them.

Chris turns away from the mirror, grabbing one of the pillows from the head of the bed and pulling it into his chest. He can still smell her on the fabric - her shampoo, her sweat, just the very essence of _her_. Of course it will eventually fade from the fibres, but he knows he would recognize it anywhere. It's nice, like being close to her again. His eyes close as he sinks into the comfort of it, his fingers twisting into the down of the pillow.

-

When he opened them he was holding her again, back on the rocky beach, covered in her blood.

"Chris, it _hurts_," she took his hand and put it on the damp fabric of her tactical vest. Underneath, his jacket was already soaked through. "It hurts _so fucking much_…"

"It's okay, it's okay; I've got you now."

Somehow his hand found her skin underneath all of the soaked fabric, pressing against the torn, slick flesh. Her organs pulsed underneath his palm, warm and wet, pulling him in further, deeper inside of her. Finally his hand came to rest around her heart, feeling it frantically flutter against the grip of his fingers like a trapped bird. She's all around him, her warmth soaking into the chill of his arm.

"_Chrissssss…_" Her back arched with the pain of it, her hands tearing at his clothing. Wide-eyed, he stared down at the twisted agony of her beautiful face as his hand began to squeeze the life out of her.

"It's okay; I've got you," he could heard himself say again, deadpan. A prisoner in his own mind, his own body, he fought uselessly against the possessed crush of his own hands that had begun to tear out her heart.

She screamed. And screamed. Andscreamedandscreamedandscreamed until he couldn't hear anything at all above it. He was screaming against himself too, but he couldn't hear that either; all of his consciousness wrapped up in her. She fought him, clawing at his face, his eyes, and still he couldn't stop himself, couldn't save her from himself, couldn't look away…

-

A car door slams shut outside the neighbour's garage and Chris sits bolt upright on her bed. His entire body is drenched in sweat, her pillow twisted and distorted in his hands. The sound of his raw, gasping breaths are the only thing to break the silence of the room. He can't bring his breathing under control. He can't bring _anything_ under control anymore. Shaking palms are pressed deep into the burning sockets of his eyes as he forces his head down between his knees, squeezing his skull until it feels like it will crack. He feels sick all over; a complete and utter wreck of what used to be a man.

In the east, the sun is rising over the trees and roofs of all of the sleepy little houses. The diffused, pinky-golden light of it pours through the sheer curtains on her window. Day one counts.


	4. Chapter Three

_Lord, it's a hard life  
God makes you live  
But without it  
Baby don't doubt it  
You don't even have  
Your tears to give_

The government never bothered to re-open the highways they had blockaded outside of Raccoon City. The view from the road was unimpressive; the towering pine trees that had made the quiet little city so quaint now served to hide its devastated remains. But there was a different road to take, one that lead up and away from the chain-link and barbed-wire fence to a small clearing on a jutting slope of one of the nearby peaks. The track was rutted beyond repair, the last mile or so easier to walk than to try to drive, but the vantage was worth the hike. From the rocky out-cropping the valley below stretched for miles, the dusty crater of the former town nestled in a surround of dark green. Even after years the forest still hesitated to reclaim that infectious plot.

In his mind, Chris could see the layout of the town overlaid as a roadmap. The rail lines, the clock tower, the bypass, the parks… They would never rebuild here; there had always been something foul in the soil. Things used to grow poorly in Raccoon City - Kathy always used to complain that her flowers never bloomed; Enrico always used to say that his kids never talked back before they moved into town. If nothing grew there anymore, twisted and stunted, it was no great loss.

Still, the survivors always came back. There was a kind of reassurance in the stark contrast of Raccoon City circa September 1998 and the present, a solace in the fact that none of the landmarks that served as the setting of so many nightmares remained on this earth. Of course, Chris Redfield didn't have nightmares about Raccoon City. He had them about a lot of things, of people, of places, monsters – but he wasn't there that night in late September and so, when his subconscious bowed down to terror, he didn't see the Kendo Gun Shop, the Raccoon City Hall, or even the police station where he spent so many hours trapped in front of a desk.

But Jill did. She saw all of those things and more. And although he could imagine, he could ask and be rebuffed, he could never fully grasp the horror of the abomination that had become the sleepy little town he once called home. He could never atone for the fact that he wasn't there. He looked over at the profile of the partner he had abandoned, her eyes focused beyond the wreckage below, a light wind feathering her hair across her cheek.

"It's such a waste," he said. "Such a goddamn waste of life."

Jill didn't say anything, just kicked a couple of stones over the edge.

"Sometimes I feel like we could have done more. Like we should have been able to tell that lab was laying under us in wait the whole time." It made him mad to think about all the years he had spent unknowing, underestimating.

"Oh, don't blame yourself, _dearheart_," she remained facing front, not looking over as she spoke, her tone sarcastic. Chris narrowed his eyes, his forehead furrowing.

"What…what did you just call me?"

Slowly, calmly, Jill finally turned towards him and Chris found himself taking an involuntary step backwards. The side of her face that had been turned away from him was a mangled wreck of flesh. Chunks of dark, rotted skin hung off of her exquisite bone structure in shreds, her blackened teeth and gums visible in a gruesome, unnatural gape in her cheek. In its decayed socket her eye glowed back at him a familiar, sickening cat-eye of red and gold.

"What's the matter Chris? Or can't you admire your own handiwork?" The still-human half of her face smiled at him, pulling at the dead flesh of the other side.

"What the fuck?!" He took another step back, trying to put as much space between them as possible. He had no weapon, nothing aside from the rocks below his booted feet to defend himself with. Could he even bring himself to use a gun, a knife, even a rock on a monstrosity that smiled back at him with the face of his partner?

"This is your fault, Chris." Jill began to come towards him, her movements smooth and methodical.

"I know, and I'm sorry! I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just come over here and man up to it. You were always one of my _best men_."

His heels came up against the edge of the out-cropping and he finally stopped, not daring to look behind at the steep, infinite drop below. He could throw himself off and end it, but he found he couldn't move, frozen in place. Before he could stumble, Jill stepped up to him and grabbed him by the throat, pulling him down into her knee. His ribs offered a meager resistance against the inhuman force and the sharp plate of bone, cracking painfully in his chest. She held him up by the throat, nails digging into the skin around his larynx.

"_You have no idea how much I hate you_." The voice was hers, but the words weren't. They came from before, from another nightmare, another antagonist. She threw him away and he stumbled back, his heel slipping past the edge of solid ground. He fell, free-form, tumbling down towards the mutilated remains of the town that had swallowed his life whole.

-

His hands slam against the padded plastic of the steering wheel as he violently comes back into consciousness. All along his neck the muscles scream protest at the awkward position he had dozed off in, his head resting against the driver's side window of his truck. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, had just taken a moment to collect his thoughts after the grueling drive down to Nellis Federal Prison Camp in Nevada. He doesn't sleep these days, not longer than a single sleep-cycle or two anyway, and he's beginning to feel the exhaustion of it in his bones.

There were a lot of people who had asked, or told, or _recommended_ that he not come down here. The Alliance had people they paid to do this kind of thing, professionals who were a lot better equipped to deal with this situation. People who had maybe slept, or eaten something substantial in the past few days or so. But he wasn't prepared to outsource the death of his partner to some slick, overpaid, professional harbinger of doom who wouldn't know her from a hole in the ground. And so he sits in the sweltering greenhouse of his truck, in the middle of the desert, sweating through the shirt of his second-best suit with his heart still pounding wildly against the inside of his ribcage.

Outside the air is a little fresher, if a little hotter. It feels nice against his face; he's felt so chilled for days. But inside the prison its cold again, the air conditioning cranked up to high. He's only been here once before, and never this far inside – he waited out near the main doors, joking with the guards while Jill visited with her father. Despite his untimely discharge from the Air Force, Chris had always found something comfortable about the atmosphere of a base, but even the familiarity of the setting can't stop his nerves from twisting up his stomach.

It's not a high-security establishment, intended to house those who were a nuisance to a particular, well-connected demographic rather than those who were truly dangerous or deranged. Such was the sad story of the notorious Dick Valentine. The man whose wife had run out on him only a few years after the birth of their daughter; who had struggled to make ends meet, working long hours as a carpet cleaner to the extremely wealthy finding only setback after setback to keep him down; the man who had gambled in using his honest face and light fingers to make a better life for his daughter and lost. The man who didn't know it yet, but had lost his only child.

It had taken Chris years to pry the details of her childhood out of his stone-faced partner. And it had come at a high price – for every chapter of her life she gave to him, she expected one of his in return. But they were partners. No secrets, no lies. Period.

There's a rattling of chain, a low rumble of voices, and the other door to the visiting area opens, admitting a prisoner in the standard tan-coloured uniform and a pair of guards. Jill took after her father in more than just lock-picking. They have the same shape of face, the same eyes, the same straight nose. They might have had the same hair-colour at one point, but Dick has long gone gray. Still, he looks good for a man his age; the endless routine of prison life kept him in good shape if not good spirits. The two men have only met once before, in a different prison, years ago when he and Jill still lived half their lives underground. She had wanted her father to know who to look out for, who he could trust to tell him the truth in case something happened to her. Something unthinkable.

Something like this.

Dick sits heavily into the chair across from him, his eyes already schooled into a glare. In another time, another life maybe, he might have liked Chris Redfield. He might have considered that the crisp, clean-cut young man with the rock-solid morals and impeccable judgment was a suitable acquaintance for the jewel that was his daughter. But Dick has seen enough clean-cut, well-built young men with sweet smiles for the pretty wives and short tempers for the harried, incarcerated husbands to have acquired a distain for them.

Chris shifts in his seat, pulling the cuff of one shirtsleeve out a bit with the opposite hand. He doesn't have to look up into the sire of Jill's eyes to feel her father trying to burn a hole through him with hate. They both know there's no _good_ reason for him to be here. Only bad, _bad_ reasons. Chris swallows hard and then clears his throat.

"Mr. Valentine…" he doesn't have to look up, but he does. He wants to do the right thing and look the other man in the eyes, regardless of how chillingly familiar they are.

"Where's my daughter?" The older man interrupts. With every passing moment his face his face grows a little tighter, a little older.

"Mr. Valentine, sir, I-"

"You killed her? _Didn't you_? Didn't you, you sack of shit?" The words start quietly and then crescendo. Dick is vibrating with the rage, the anguish of the thought, his lips twisting up into something horrible. One of the guards by the door coughs, a reminder to keep it under control. But it's hard to maintain self-control when the world had just revealed its true, cruel nature.

"I…" Chris' mouth goes dry. There are no words to explain. Dick was right; he _did_ kill her, he _was_ a sack of shit – all he had to do now was admit it. Still, the words don't come. He doesn't know how to describe a pain he can barely abide; doesn't know how to define the events that inspire his nightmares. And so he defaults, he rolls back to the textbook. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss…"

The next thing he knows he's laying flat on his back, a pair of fists pummeling his face.

"Don't you dare fucking apologize to me you son of a bitch! You fucking sack of shit son of a bitch! You think a fucking apology is going to bring her back?!"

There's as much spittle as there is verbal language pouring out at him, as many tears as curses. Although Dick manages to land a couple of decent hits, he's too enraged, too devastated to do any real damage before the guards pull him away, batons in hand. Chris could have easily thrown him off – he does this kind of thing for a living – but he just lays back and lets it happen, lets the kind of agony that he can't feel smash its way into the bones of his face.

The guards drag Dick off, still twisting and kicking out at him. Chris steps in before they can work him over too badly, but he knows he can only put off the treatment for as long as they stay on this side of the steel door at the back of the room. The older man is still yelling, half-sobbing, even as they maneuver him outside.

"I told her you were bad news – I told her right from the start!" One of the guards nearly sends him tumbling with a shove, but, like his daughter was, he's light on his feet. "You'll fucking _burn_ for this Redfield. You will fucking burn in hell for this!"

The door closes and Chris straightens his tie, helping the remaining guard turn the table back over. The other man is young, just out of high school from the looks of it, and he looks a little ashamed at having let the situation get out of control. Chris doesn't mind, he's glad someone finally had the nerve to bust him up a bit – at least it's something tangible.

He's never been a religious man, but there is a hell, he knows – he's already living in it.


	5. Chapter Four

_The men cut marble to mark our graves  
Said we'll need something to remind us of  
All the sweetness that has passed through us_

It was so dark he could barely fit his keys into the motel room door, a problem made all the worse by a slight case of inebriation. He wasn't drunk, he maintained, just a little more cheerful than usual. But alcohol didn't make Jill cheerful - it made her impatient. She grabbed the key ring out of his inept hand and slammed the offending piece home on the first try.

"Niiiiiiiice," he leaned up against the doorjamb, highly impressed. "You are the _master_, Jill. You are the _master_ of unlocking."

Jill rolled her eyes at him and sighed, slipping they key out of the lock and into his shirt pocket. She patted the hard little misshape of fabric lightly and pulled the lapel of his jacket securely over top.

"Now don't lose that – I want the deposit back in full," she opened the door, brushing past him into the even darker room beyond. "C'mon, I think it's time for you to start sleeping it off."

"Not so fast," he grabbed her arm, turning their bodies until her back came up against the door, forcing it shut with an audible _click_ behind them. His body pinned hers against the wood, one forearm pressed leaning on the door beside her head, the other arm wrapped around her waist. It was a bold gesture, and potentially a dangerous one. The darkness of the room obscured everything in the moments before his eyes could adjust. Everything but the feel of her underneath him, silky and soft in that sweet little blue dress that had slipped down her shoulder all night, wearing his resistance so thin that it snapped. She kept her hands pressed against the door behind her, her chin tilted up to look at him.

"Hey," he said, watching her features slowly come into view as his eyes adjusted.

"Hey."

"Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad," he could feel her words against his cheek, feather-light.

"Are you drunk?"

"_You're_ drunk."

"I'm not drunk," he rested his forehead against hers, their noses touching on opposite sides. He closed his eyes; he didn't need to see her to _know_ her. "I'm just happy."

There had been a time when they blurred the lines between friends and lovers. There had been a time, when the world was on the brink of collapsing in on itself, that it seemed like a good idea. But when the immediacy of the threat of had receded, when urgency returned to routine, it was more important to work together than to sleep together; to have her by his side rather than in his bed.

Still, she was his partner; he knew her every move, every sound, every inch of her. He could predict her movements, her reactions – just as she could his. Together, they functioned, _flowed_, as a single unit.

Her arms finally came up around his shoulders, pulling their bodies a little tighter together and shifting more of her weight onto him. Leaning down a little he kissed her cheek…

The corner of her mouth…

Her jaw…

Her neck…

All the way down to that pale curve of her shoulder that had been calling his name all night.

"What you are," he ran his tongue along the parallel of her collarbone, "is good enough to eat."

His teeth nipped a little roughly at her shoulder, laving the mark with his tongue. Her reply was a murmur, her fingers burrowing through the thickness of his hair to hold his lips against her pulse. The taste of her was familiar but still exhilarating, still a treat. He trailed his mouth slowly back up to her lips, capturing them in a hot, wet, messy kiss. As in all things, he held nothing back from her in his desire, pushing his hips into hers, letting her feel the effect she had on him.

Firm hands gripped the toned muscle of her thighs, lifting her up to wrap her legs snugly around his hips, the satiny material of her dress riding up high. The softness of her hair hung down to graze his cheek, shielding his vision from anything but her. Her weight balanced between his hips and the door, she cupped his face in her palms, letting him slide his tongue along hers. The sweetness of anniversary cake still lingered on someone's breath, but there was something different too, something known but out of place. It tasted hot and metallic…

Blood.

He pulled back slightly, his mouth already coated in the tang of it.

"Jill?" He looked up at her, her mute lips stained a deep, glossy black with blood. She put a hand up to her mouth to catch some of the effusion, but the flow was too heavy, it ran out between her fingers to stain her dress and the front of his shirt.

With shaky, panic-stricken movements he gently lowered her legs back down to the floor, but her knees were too weak to support her weight and he felt himself pulled farther down onto the cheap, rough carpeting. He leaned back against the door, tucking her head into the crook of his arm, high enough that she wouldn't choke on the thick, black blood that poured out from between her lips to cover them both. His heart rate, already raised from before, skyrocketed. She coughed and sputtered for air, every successful breath only an agonizing wheeze followed by a wet gargle. Helplessness forced his own breaths in quick, terrified gasps; all he could do is tuck her under his chin and wait for her shudders to stop.

Something hard nudged him in the stomach. He looked down to find the handle of his own gun pressed into his gut.

"Jill, no," he said firmly, putting his fingers over hers on the metal, her digits still slick with blood. She looked up at him, illuminated by the one patch of light that broke into the room through the gap between the curtains and the windowsill, unable to speak but not really needing to. There was blood, fresh and wet, covering her chin, her neck, plastering the ends of her hair; he could smell it.

"I can't," her fingers worked his through the motions of cocking back the hammer to chamber a round. "Please don't make me do this."

She choked for air, managing to force out one breathless, broken word before another rush of black coursed out through her teeth.

"Please…"

Chris looked up towards a nonexistent heaven, finding only the water-stained, stuccoed ceiling of a motel room in place of paradise. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as she pulled the muzzle of the gun up to her chin. He kept them closed as he lowered his head, biting into his lower lip until the remnants of her claret poured into the open wound.

"Forgive me," he whispered, and pulled the trigger.

-

Hours later, standing up at the edge of her open grave, he can still feel the ghost of her hands on his skin, still taste her blood at the back of his throat. It's too nice a day for a funeral, the sun too bright and warm to put someone underground. It should be raining and miserable and so awful that they have to postpone the entire event. A cold wind rustles the dried leaves in the trees, but the day is clear and glaringly bright.

It would be a shame to put all of the arrangements to waste. Whoever the Alliance hired was good at what they did – they certainly had enough practice at it. New recruits filled out a questionnaire about the kind of ceremony they would prefer – Roman Catholic, non-religious, private. Chris can remember absentmindedly skimming over the pages covered in little tick-boxes, dismissing it as some corporate policy bullshit. Since joining up with the BSAA Chris has attended his fair share of understated, nondenominational, closed-casket services. This graveyard is filled with their relics.

He can still hear the echoing, damning finality of her casket slamming shut, as affronting as a door slamming in his face. Inside that closed, airless little box her body will degrade and rot away in a manner that he prays her memory won't. He doesn't want the traces of her smile or the flutter of her hand on his arm to distort and fade away like so much rotted skin and muscle.

Somewhere in the crowd someone is openly, apparently uncontrollably, weeping. The sobs sound female, but Chris can't pinpoint the source without turning around. The small gathering of people is an even split between the reddened, bleary eyes of the overly-emotional and the cold, steely glares that are too reserved, to _together_ on the surface to let it show.

There's one young rookie in particular that's having a tough time keeping it all under wraps. Chris remembers the kid from the interview process – young, skilled, but with a chip on his shoulder heavy enough to bring him down. Jill's endorsement had been the only thing to keep his foot in the door and she'd had to fight tooth and nail for it. At first he had been skeptical of his partner's decision, but the kid had proven himself more than once in a tight spot. The rookie idolized her, and with his blazing eyes it's obvious he feels his grief much more deeply than the flesh-and-blood relatives who hadn't even bothered to show up. Her work had been her family, her life - much more so than the aunt and uncle who had raised her alongside, but separately, from their own children after her father's incarceration. Their absence isn't felt, or missed.

The casket is slowly lowered into the freshly hewn grave, little flecks of damp, dark earth scattering over the petals of the heaped mound of flowers that cover the polished wood. Amidst the subdued white of roses and carnations, nearly engulfed by their neutrality, is one small, bright bouquet of marigolds. He is the only one who chose a symbol of grief and sorrow over reverence and loveliness.

The sound of the first shovelful of soil hitting wood makes him flinch. It's a small motion, one that his sister, standing right beside him, can barely see. But it's there all the same, in the twitch and clench of his jaw and a slight jerk of his shoulders. Claire can remember how it was at their father's funeral, years before. How he'd stood in the same, stiff manner, all kitted out in his crisp, smart-looking Air Force uniform. That day had been gray and miserable and the cold mist of rain had been refreshing against her hot, tear-stained cheeks. Then, like now, he had been strong and stoic – the immovable object ready to meet the unstoppable force.

Eventually the other mourners drift away, leaving the two siblings side by side at the edge of the abyss. All except for one older gentleman in an impeccably cut suit who had lingered the entire service at the edge of the crowd. His hair is pure white and thinning, lifted up in snowy puffs by the wind. Claire leaves her brother's side for a moment and the other man, leaning heavily on a cane, slowly approaches with his hitching gait.

"Excuse me son, but are you Christopher Redfield?"

Chris doesn't take his eyes off of the casket now six feet below him, the flowers deeply sullied by shovelfuls of dirt. "Yes."

"You're not a very easy man to get in touch with."

"There are several excellent reasons for that, I can assure you."

"My name is William Hunt," one bony hand fishes into the pocket of his trench coat to produce a nicely embossed business card on thick cardstock. It reads _William T. Hunt – Counselor-at-Law._ Chris can read it from where he's standing – he doesn't bother to take it from the other man's extended grip.

"That's fascinating."

There is a deep, brief silence that passes. Chris finds his words often have that effect now.

"I'm sorry – I hate to interrupt," his sister breezes between the two men, a distraction that breaks some of the tension that has spawned. She takes the card and glances at it. "I'm Claire Redfield – is there something I can help you with Mister Hunt?"

Equipped with her cheery, radiant smile and outwardly sweet disposition, Claire is used to getting people to tell her, or give her, what she wants. It's part of what she does for a living. Behind her, she can feel her brother's anger and compressed emotions actively seeking an outlet.

"Why yes dear, maybe you can," Mister Hunt shot a look over her shoulder. Standing next to each other the similarities between siblings reveal themselves – the shape of the jaw and nose, the determined set of the lips. Their eyes are the same shade of piercing gray-blue, although Chris' right iris is marred by a sector of brown that appears to bleed out of his pupil. It's a distinguishing, almost magnetic feature. "I'm the executor of Miss Valentine's will – as such I need to notify all of the beneficiaries of the assets they stand to inherit."

Claire looks back at her brother but he doesn't meet her eye, just looks down and away. Probate was long and painful after their father died – the last thing anyone needs now is a long, prolonged round of legal proceedings. Neither of them does well in a courtroom setting; too passionate, too outspoken. It is something the Umbrella Corporation defense lawyers had done their best to capitalize on.

"I'll have someone call your office as soon as our schedules get back to normal," she flashes a bright, genuine smile that shows her even, white teeth. "Thank you so much for coming out and waiting in the cold."

"For you my dear, it's not a problem." He gives a little bow of the head before placing his felted wool fedora back on. "I'll be expecting your call."

Claire waves a little at him as he limps off towards the parking lot, then turns back to her brother. He's still looking down into the great, dark maw of the earth that is waiting for him to turn his back so it can devour an entire part of his soul.

"You ready to go?"

It's done now – they'll cover her up with dirt and in 100 years, with her name eroded off the gravestone, it'll be like she never existed. Just like all of the other friends he wasn't capable of saving. But he still exists, for now, and so does his sister, who has been so strong and brave and who he can see he's slowly pushing to the breaking point each day. It shouldn't have to be this way – he's the older brother, he's supposed to be the one to take care of things, to be the one in charge – the one in control. The least he can do is make an attempt.

"Sure. Let's go," he looks her in the eye for the first time in a long time. The first time since he had to rely on somebody else to take care of his own kid sister. "We can take the shortcut and get home first."

"We're too nicely dressed to take the shortcut – it's _sketchy_ bro."

"Not even half as sketchy as that guy you used to go out with in high school. You didn't seem to mind so much then."

"_Craig?_ You only didn't like him because he had a mohawk."

"A green mohawk…"

"Yes, a _green_ mohawk. And it was very flattering on him."

"And a rap-sheet longer than my arm…"

"He did not," Claire rolled her eyes dramatically at him, happy to put up with the jibes; happy to put up with anything more human than infinite, forced silence. She reaches over and gives his arm a shove, her fingers barely able to penetrate the tightly wound muscle of his bicep. "Fine, we can take your stupid shortcut, but you owe me a coffee for making me freeze my butt off out here arguing."

He shoves her back, albeit more gently than she'd leaned on him. Tottering on high heels that sink their way into the grass it would be too easy to send her sprawling.

"Deal."

-

By the end of the day he's not sure how many more attempts he has left in him. He can't bear to stand around rehashing old memories, pretending like it's just that easy to get on with it. His entire life has lots its momentum. Inertia has taken over.

"Mind if I join you?"

Chris takes his head out of his hands and looks up over his shoulder. Wrapped up in an oversized scarf, illuminated by the lit doorframe around her is Kathy Burton. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and snubs it out under the toe of his boot.

"Not at all," he slides over a little on the step to make room. "Feeling a little claustrophobic in there?"

"You could say that again," she settles herself down beside him, tucking the ends of the shawl snugly around herself. She's been angling to get him alone like this all day. Although Kathy isn't really old enough to be his mother, she's never been able to quell her maternal instincts in regards to the tortured soul that is, and maybe always has been, Chris Redfield. The loss of so many close friends is hard to deal with for someone who dedicated their life to protecting people. "I didn't think it was possible to squeeze that many people into this tiny little house."

"Me either. Although I think half of the guys from work only showed up for the food – you really outdid yourself this time Kathy."

"It's nothing," she waves a dismissive hand. "I restocked your freezer while I was at it too. How you got so big on freezer-burned Eggos I'll never know."

"Those were my nuclear winter emergency rations I'll have you know."

This is a conversation they could have had three months ago, or three years in the future. It's joking and noncommittal, and yet Kathy can see he's visibly drained by having had to force a façade of strength and recovery all day.

"It was a beautiful eulogy – very eloquent."

"Thank you."

There is another bout of silence.

The way he is now reminds her of the way he used to be, back when he called her "Mrs. Burton" and they'd both had a lot fewer gray hairs. He had been a young man then, freshly discharged from the Air Force, struggling to cope with both the loss of a father he clearly cared dearly for and the resentment of a teenage sister who dealt with her own grief by lashing out at authority figures. And then, like now, there was a stillness to him that seemed unnatural on his frame, on his eternally-boyish features; a lack of direction, of focus, that turned him against himself. He hides his pain so that it's easy to dismiss if you don't really give a damn. But Kathy gives a great deal of a damn about the friend who always made sure her husband came home to her.

"I miss her so much," Chris looks down at his hands – they have finally stopped shaking. They have always been able to be frank with each other - the worst she can do is tell Barry; the worst he can do now is tell it to a gravestone. And yet, as far as he knows, she's never betrayed his confidences. He knows he's never betrayed hers. "There is _no_ part of me that doesn't _ache_ for some part of her."

"I'm so sorry, honey."

"Don't apologize – you haven't done anything wrong."

There is a quiet pause – just a pause - briefly interrupted by a peal of laughter from inside.

"It's just…" he struggles to find the right words to confess what has been eating viciously away at the parts of his heart that aren't blackened by rage. When the words come they are slow, measured, and tight. "It's just… I loved her, you know? I really did. But I never told her – I don't know what I was so afraid of, but I just… never said anything. And," he sighs, "and the thought of her dying without ever knowing it…I feel like I haven't taken a full breath in days."

"I think she knew," Kathy says quietly after taking a moment to find her composure. Her cheeks are wet for the hundredth time that day.

"How?" When he turns to face her his cheeks aren't tear-stained like hers are; his eyes don't even water - they never do anymore. But his voice is a little gruff, a little desperate for an answer.

"Oh sweetheart, _everybody_ knew. Two people don't stay together the way you two did - they don't look at each other the way you two did – without something more than just a passing affection there. Your partnership lasted longer than most marriages these days. She cared very deeply for you, but I think somewhere, deep down, you already knew that."

"I suppose so, yeah."

"You don't always have to say things to mean them. Actions almost always speak louder than words."

The acknowledgment helps, but the guilt of his own cowardice still weighs heavily on his shoulders.

"Does that make it any easier?"

"I don't know yet."

"Will you at least come inside and have something to eat? It might make you feel better."

"Would it make _you_ feel better?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least that makes one of us." He offers her his arm to help her up, a joint or two cracking in the chilly night air.

He feels robotic, which isn't necessarily _better_; it's only slightly different. It's more efficient to be mechanical, to find one task to focus on and to work at it endlessly until all the moving parts grind down and fall apart. He's _functional_, and for now, it's enough - barely.


	6. Chapter Five

_Every terrible thing is a relief__  
Even months on end buried in grief__  
Are easy light times which have to end  
With the coming of your death friend_

Chris is tired of sitting in waiting rooms. He's tired of _sitting_. He needs to do something, something _physical_, before he crawls right out of his own skin. A trip to the shooting range would be nice maybe, something he's good at that requires concentration. He hates this forced idleness, this endless, pointless _waiting_ while other people get their shit together. He always has.

Over at the front desk one of the more junior agents is flirting with the pretty young secretary the Captain hired to look nice up front and organize his daybook. Her laugh is sweet and bubbly and the kid seems pretty pleased with himself – apparently he doesn't know that it's the same laugh she gives the mailman and the guy who comes to change the water cooler. That's how long Chris has been waiting, flipping through the same cut up magazines and old newspapers – someone's kid must have gone through a real motorcycle phase about a year and a half ago. It's not that he's early; this is just the Captain letting him know he's none too pleased about his little transgression in the interview room.

Chris could care less what that old man thinks. He's not a legitimate captain of anything; he just likes the title. And he's not the one out in the field watching nineteen year old kids and best friends ripped get to shreds or shot to hell – or worse. Instead, he sits behind his paneled oak doors with his bubbly blonde secretary and signs paycheques and acts like he has the nerve to tell people like Chris what is and what is not appropriate. Jill had always been better at dealing with him; there's just something about _captains_ that rubs Chris the wrong way.

His mood isn't improved by the fact that he spent the majority of yesterday cooped up in an office as well. William T. Hunt – Counselor-at-Law's secretary was a lot less nice to look at though; William T. Hunt himself even less so. Chris leans his head over to one shoulder and then the other, cracking his neck with a series of small pops. The secretary gives him a sympathetic smile and then turns her attention back to the younger man leaning his arms over her desk. There's a stiffness all along Chris' back and neck from pouring over legal documents for an afternoon; he wasn't built for that kind of life.

Of course Jill had known that, had written her will so that its sole benefactor – evidently himself – wouldn't have to spend too much time with the small print. They were both realists; that something like this might eventually happen was no surprise given their history, their chosen line of work. So most of the significant purchases – the house, the vehicles, a handful of investments – were done so that title might pass easily from one co-signer to the other. But Chris had had no idea about her personal accounts – why should he? – and the dollar amount listed on the documents had nearly made his jaw drop. Evidently Dick Valentine was a better jewel thief than anyone had ever given him credit, or prosecuted him, for. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to send a tremor of guilt through him. It was too much to gain from having lost so much; it doesn't feel right.

He's just about to tell El Captiano to go fuck himself when the phone chirps on the secretary's desk. She looks up and smiles at him, broader this time, more inviting, and motions him over to the door. Inside, the room is a barrage of richly stained wood paneling, soft, black leather furniture, and a vast assortment of mariner's memorabilia. Supposititious or not, the man took his title very seriously. Chris settles himself into the plush seat of the chair across from the Captain behind his unnecessarily large desk.

"That was quite a lovely…installation… you left for us in T204, son."

"You liked that one, did you?"

"I wasn't especially enthralled by it, no. Although it's strange that no one seems to know where that particular young man came from, or where he was headed to, before you beat his brains right out of his skull."

On that particular day, no one had dared to question Chris' actions, to tell him to take a breath and think about what he was about to do. The one person who might have lay at the very heart of the issue itself. Seeking the bloody vengeance they knew he would bring, his teammates had followed his orders without hesitation.

"I don't suppose he was headed anywhere in particular then."

"Funny, and I was sure you were aware of the proper protocols for placing suspects under arrest."

"I don't seem to recall _arresting_ anyone within the past three months, my reports clearly state that."

"So you killed a man, and now you're going to pretend like he never existed, is that it?"

Chris shrugs, the tension knotting his shoulders back in tenfold. That scum had hardly qualified as a human being. "_Who_ never existed?"

"I could have you suspended – indefinitely. Or arrested."

"You're not going to have me arrested, or suspended."

"You're damn right I'm not. I can't – you'd take half this agency with you and I'd be left up shit creek without a paddle."

"Then I don't see a problem here."

"What I _can_ do on the other hand, is order you for a mandatory psych evaluation-"

"I don't _need_ a psych evaluation," Chris interjects, his mismatched eyes narrowed and blazing. The words are clipped to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. "What I _need_ is an assignment."

"I already gave you one," The Captain throws his hands up, exasperated.

A manila file folder scatters across the polished wood of the desk, the edges of the papers and glossy-print photos within splaying out beyond the edges.

"I don't want it."

"What the fuck is this? Since when are _you_ so bloody picky?" The folder is shoved back across the desk towards Chris who has his arms crossed, his jaw set. It's this type of attitude that put him on thin ice with the Air Force.

"No more partners. No more teams. I don't want any of that shit." He's tired of being the only one to make it out, tired of all the deaths that hang on his shoulders like a weighted yoke, heavier and heavier each year. If he has to see respect and admiration in another set of eyes that are soon to be squeezed shut in a final agony he's going to lose it. Completely.

The Captain looks across the desk at the other man, one of the founding members of this organization. A man that, until now, has always been beyond reproach. Chris looks like hell – his clothes are rumpled and his powerful limbs are restless. In all his time with the BSAA he's never balked at a single assignment, regardless of length or severity or risk to himself.

"Fine," he relents, pulling the folder back to his side of the desk. "I'll give you a six month reprieve – twelve at the most."

"That's not good enough."

"Look, Redfield, I'll level with you," the Captain's tone is low, conspiratorial. "You're one of the best commanders we've got – your teams have the highest success rate of anyone."

"They have the highest mortality rate too."

"You're only one man, son. How much do you really think you can accomplish on your own?"

Chris stands up – he's had enough. To reduce the lives he's seen lost into numbers and percents is more than he's capable of putting up with at this point. This is exactly why he doesn't like Captains – they want everyone to be a statistic.

"Are we done here?"

"For now, yes. I want you back here Monday morning – 9 am. I'll have something for you by then. And I promise not to keep you waiting this time."

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob Chris snorts.

"We'll see," he says, and slams the door behind him.

-

It's dark by the time he gets home, but the little row of solar lights that line the walk guides him up to the door. Jill's idea – of course – after stubbing her toe one too many times on the steps after one or other of them had forgotten to leave the light on. Jill was practical like that. He's going to miss that. If someone forgets to leave the light on now, he'll know exactly who to blame.

His keys hit the coffee table in the living room with a clatter, followed by the duller thud of his cellphone. Grabbing the remote he sinks down onto the couch, still wearing his boots and jacket. He should eat, and shower, and sleep, but now all he wants to do is _sit_, his earlier impatience entirely drained away. The trip to the shooting range was a total bust, leaving him more frustrated than anything. He can't remember the last time his aim was so bad, so _amateur_. He can't remember the last time it took him so long to reload.

Jill would have loved to have lorded it over him. His shaking hands fumbling with the rounds; Forest would have had a field day.

It will come back, he knows it will. It's more than a just task for him, more than a skill – it's a lifeline, an instinct. Some have even called it a talent. Personally, he doesn't think that killing people should be a _talent_. But it's all that he has, all that he's had for a long time. All he ever wanted to do was _protect_ people, and it's the people closest to him that have suffered the most for it. Guilt, and shame, and utter uselessness fill him up like air rushing into a vacuum.

The television flickers to life, filling the room with staccato bursts of light. Larger than life on the screen Gary Sinise is about to break some unsolvable case wide open. Chris hates crime dramas – they're unrealistic and formulaic. And they remind him of work, or what used to be work, back when he planned his life out by months and years instead of weeks and days. Or hours. Back before he even knew what a Bio Organic Weapon was. And yet, despite the irritation, there's something comforting about the inevitable happy ending.

It's the type of ending he will never have. He's old enough to admit that now.

His whole body feels heavy, the worn couch cushions enveloping more and more of him as he slides down into them. He shouldn't feel this exhausted after days on end spent doing nothing. He shouldn't let this paralyze him, but he is anyway; he just can't seem to help it when his limbs feel as heavy as lead. His eyes lose focus, the screen blurring as they drift shut.

-

He didn't have to open them again to feel her in the room nearby, the soft padding of bare feet on the wood floor giving her presence away. Her weight sunk into the cushion next to him, and he knew that when he opened his eyes she would be sitting with her legs tucked up beside her, her elbow propped up on the arm of the couch, chin resting on her palm. He turned his head and cracked open his grainy lids - it was exactly as he pictured; her curled up next to him wearing her favourite old t-shirt and jeans. His blinked quickly a few times to clear the sudden pricking feeling behind his eyes.

She turned to look at him and smiled a little with one corner of her mouth. He wanted to reach out and touch her so badly it made his chest burn. Just to reach out and curl his fingers around the bare skin of one thin ankle and hold on forever. But he was afraid to; afraid that just by touching her he could hurt her in unimaginable ways, could make her scream in pain and spit blood and _hate_ him.

"This is a dream, isn't it?" His voice was low and raspy with sleep and emotion.

Jill didn't say anything, just gave him a sweet, sad little smile along with a slight nod.

"It's always going to be a dream, _isn't it_?" The words felt thick and heavy in his throat, dragging out more of what's in his chest than he would have liked.

Again, she didn't say anything. Her eyes were incredibly sad for him, shining in the snowy static of the television screen.

"I miss you, Jill," his fingers clenched into fists on his lap; he didn't trust himself not to reach out for her. Her eyes caught sight of the motion and she shifted over slightly to be closer to him, pulling one fist out of his lap, gently working the fingers open. "I miss you so much and I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to get hurt, but you did it's my fault and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let you down."

Her hands lifted his palm up to the softness of her cheek, holding it in place as she shook her head. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, even if it meant watching something bad happen. He needed to _see_ her. He had to swallow hard between sentences, but the tightness of his throat didn't ease.

"I'm so tired. I'm just so tired now."

Something warm and wet rolled over his fingers where they lay against her cheek.

"Help me, Jill. Please help me," he finally dared to move his thumb, brushing away the flow of tears, wanting more than anything in the world to crush her against his chest and curl himself around her and never let go, even if it meant never waking up. _Especially_ if it meant never waking up. "Give me your strength Jill, please. I can't do this. _Please_."

She looked at him for a long moment, then pulled his hand away slightly to press her lips to the base of his palm where the veins are near to the surface. A golden, glowing warmth spread into his arm from that spot, up through his shoulder and into his chest. It made his skin seem brighter wherever it touched, bringing colour back into the grayscale world of his dream. When it reached his heart he felt something _good_ surge through him, something strong and brave – something beautiful and kind. Something like her. And with every pulse beat his limbs felt lighter, his joints easier to move.

But she was fading away from him, her hands ghostly and increasingly translucent where they touched his arm.

"No, don't go," he begged, his voice raw despite the warmth that filled him. "Please just stay with me a little while. Just a little while longer."

The spectre of Jill pulled his hand to her chest, her skin tingling against his palm like static electricity. But here was no heartbeat under his fingertips, no comforting, steady rhythm to match his own. She placed her other hand at the back of his neck, pulling him closer to press a kiss against his forehead.

-

But her lips never touch his skin, and he wakes up alone again with a dampness at the corners of his eyes and a frustrated, silent scream hissing out through his clenched teeth.


	7. Chapter Six

_You wonder if you are alive  
And you're not sure if you want to be_

"I love what you've done with the place," the notes of her voice are the same as he remembered. He thought that maybe they would be different, that maybe crying out his name in agony every night would have made her sound lower, raspier.

His work has exploded over every surface of her bedroom – or what used to be her bedroom. A large map is stuck to the wall with tape, a series of lines and symbols messily scrawled across its surface in thick red and blue marker. It hangs a little crooked, but that seems perfectly in keeping with the mess of papers and files that are piled up and spread across every horizontal surface. Eventually, when he'd felt brave enough, he'd renovated her room into an office – an arrangement that allowed him to work himself to the brink of exhaustion and then stumble across the hall to pass out in bed. Or rather _on_ bed, usually still fully clothed. Those nights were the best: dark and dreamless, he woke up exhausted, but at least he didn't wake up screaming.

"I'm sorry about the furniture and clothes and everything – I gave everything away. I guess I… just uh," he stumbles awkwardly, tension written along every note of his body language. He's barely keeping it together, a tremor escaping through his hands every now and then though he keeps them clenched tight at his sides. "I just.."

"Didn't think I'd be needing them anymore? It's okay Chris, I don't mind. You did what you had to."

"I kept all of the pictures and everything. They seemed more important." The picture of them together at the anniversary is in a frame on his dresser. There are days when the sight of it makes him happy and bolsters his resolve, but there are days when it just makes him feel incredibly lonely. It's hard to say which outnumbers the other.

"Thank you," the smile she gives him is genuine and sincere. It's been years since he's seen her smile like that and the effect is contagious. The corners of his mouth ache to smile back, but he can't. Not yet.

"Jill, I – " His breathing is a little strained, but she kindly doesn't comment on it, even if it does force his words out at an agonizing pace. "Is this a dream? I don't care anymore if it is, but I… I need to know."

"I can't tell," she looks around the room, takes in every little detail that's changed and all of those that haven't. Her eyes finally settle on him, the smile fading from her lips. "You never look like this in my dreams – you always look the same, the way you did that day by the lake. You look a lot different now."

He _is_ different now. He's bigger than he used to be, and harder too, all sharp lines and angles and powerful muscles that glide under his skin. There are dark crescents etched under his eyes, the kind that never really fade away, and his jaw is rough and unkempt with stubble.

"You look exactly the same. You always look just like this."

While he has aged a month for every day, she has remained the same, like nothing ever happened. She could have walked right out of the photo on the dresser and back into his life. In the back of his mind, Chris wonders if there are scars knitted together across her chest and stomach. Or did the wounds fade away back into clear, smooth skin? Or, like always, do they remain lurking just under the surface, waiting to reopen and stain his hands crimson.

"Chris…" she steps forward, reaching up to touch the strands of silver at his temple. The coarse, colourless filaments seem so at odds with the boyish smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. But he flinches back from her fingertips and she withdraws her hand, curling the digits into a tight ball at her side. "Do I disgust you?"

It's meant to be a simple question, not an accusation, and she does a commendable job of keeping her voice even and calm despite the undeniable current of _hurt_ that runs through it. She still bites the insides of her lips when she's anxious.

"No," he's quick and firm to answer. "Never. You would _never_ disgust me."

"I disgust myself, sometimes," her eyes are averted from his, looking off somewhere beyond his hip into the hallway. This Jill is different too; she seems more timid in her own skin than she used to. Something in her confidence has been shattered, the edges razor sharp and pointed. Chris knows too well what it feels like to stumble into the verge of your own resolve and come up bleeding.

He wants to reach out and reassure her, and _touch_ her, but he's so afraid. How can he explain without sounding like a lunatic? How can he explain that there are these _rules_ and if he touches her there will be _consequences_ and she will suffer? And _he_ will suffer?

"…I don't want to hurt you," it's the best he can do. He's so tired of _suffering_. Sometimes he feels like he must reek of it.

"You wouldn't hurt me…"

"Yes I would… I do… all the time."

Her eyes find his again, pure blue against a brown and gray genetic anomaly. She can see right through him, right through to the very core where all of the guilt and hate and self-loathing has melded itself into his marrow. All of that rage has contorted the familiar elements of him, twisting them in some ways, honing them in others. He is more merciless than he used to be, but more dedicated, more _efficient_. He is disconsolate in his personal life and yet incredibly successful in his career. But he wants her to see beyond than that, beyond the sleepless nights and forced detachment, the endless days spent immersed in the fight. He wants her to look deep inside and tell him if there's anything left underneath it all.

She reaches out for him again, and this time he doesn't pull away, letting her take one of his hands between both of hers. The skin of her fingers is soft and cool against his overheated flesh. She looks down at the clenched fingers with their scabbed up knuckles and rough fingernails. The nail of his index finger is black, a large scratch running down from the cuticle. As always, she understands.

"Let go of this, Chris."

"I can't."

"You can; it's okay now."

"I _can't_."

"Why? _Why_ do you have to do this to yourself?"

"Because… because if I wake up and you're gone again, _this,_" he puts his other hand over hers, "is all that I have left."

It's important that he tells her all of the things he never made time for before. It's important that he at least tries to get them out before… before who knows what happens; it's always something different. But there are so many words that they lodge, soundless, in his throat, choking him. Despair and desperation fill him up like a drowning man's lungs until he's suffocating, harsh, ragged breaths heaving in and out, short and fast. He blinks, grabs on to the door frame, pulls at the collar of his shirt, but nothing eases the panic. It's happened before, this kind of wretched attack on himself where he fades out from the world. But never this bad; never in front of somebody else.

"Chris?" Jill grabs his arm, trying to bring him back to Earth. "Chris?!"

She pulls him across the hall to his own bedroom, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed with a firm, insistent pressure on his shoulders. Then, more gently, her hands press his head down between his knees.

"Just breathe okay?" the soothing familiarity of her voice coaches him. "Just take one deep breath, okay? Through your nose."

One cool hand is placed against the back of his neck where the blood is running hot and fast up into his skull, threatening to boil. And then he can't resist anymore, he's pulling her up into his arms and closer still. His hands find their way home to the curve of her waist, his head to the soft slope of her neck. A sudden relief, refreshing and cool, floods into the burning void in his chest with a shock that makes his muscles contract.

"Just don't let go this time. Just… just don't… don't let go this time, Jill." It's the desperate plea of a frantic man hanging, _strangling_, at the end of his rope.

"I never let go," she murmurs against his temple, her lips trembling a little to see him in such a state; they still feel each other's pain as their own.

She is warm and sweet-smelling and just feels so damn _good_, so _right_, holding him back like that. This is what he has longed for through days and nights of lonely agony. He has filled his life with orders and strategies in an effort to replace the feeling of her up against him and it's never worked, not for a fraction of a second. The comfort of her embrace is a reward he never knew he could receive again.

"You're going to be okay Chris," her voice is soft in his ear over the steady, even thump of her heartbeat against his cheek. All he can hear is her heart, her voice, her breathing - so much steadier than his own….

And the steady click of her watch counting the seconds. He tightens his fingers into her flesh, hard enough to bruise, refusing to let go. They'll have to kill him first this time.

_Tick_

"Chris…" She sounds alarmed, but doesn't pull away, just crushes him tighter into herself, alarmed by the sudden distraught panic radiating off every inch of him.

_Tick_

"Jill…" His voice cracks. It's still embarrassing, but it still doesn't matter.

_Tick_

Inhale

_Tick_

"It's okay now, Chris. I've got you." She surrounds his entire awareness, the great, comfortable haven of her arms, the steady drum of her heart in the undamaged wall of her chest. His partner, his best friend, he can't hear the words she mouths against his temple.

_Tick_

Exhale

_Tick_

Chris can feel the beat of his heart in contrast to hers, the light clamminess of sweat under his palm where his hand has ridden up under her shirt to lay flat against her skin. Even with his eyes closed everything is golden, warm, _real_. His brain is an inferno, rent between faith and disbelief. He has felt her with him, her strength in his veins, her iron will bolted to his own backbone, but he hasn't _felt_ her like this since she bled out in his arms and he died right along side her.

_Tick_

And it's so beautiful

_Tick_

She's so beautiful.

_Tick_.

_Tick._

_Tick._

**End**

**

* * *

**The author would like to acknowledge the use of lyrics from the following songs:

_Matthew Good Band_:  
Running for Home  
A Boy and His Machine Gun

_Bright Eyes_:  
The Centre of the World  
A Poetic Retelling of an Unfortunate Seduction

_Bonnie 'Prince' Billy_:  
Hard Life  
Death to Everyone


End file.
